


Men With Scars

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Spies & Secret Agents, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-20 02:44:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: Sansa doesn’t have a type, but if she had, it’d be long dark hair and dreamy eyes and scars and tattoos.When she meets Jon for the first time, he’sblond.OrSansa is Baelish’s prisoner in the Eyrie, and Jon goes undercover to save her.





	Men With Scars

⚡

His hair is the first thing she notices, the bright shock of blond and the length a stark contrast to all the buzzcuts the other soldiers sport, and she almost asks Mr Brune about it before she bites her tongue. She’s not supposed to know that most of the men up here in the Eyrie are soldiers and mercenaries and guards of the man she has to call father, and she’s decided to play dumb, to pretend like she doesn’t see and doesn’t notice and doesn’t know. Stupidity and naivety and ignorance have helped her survive so far, and she’s better off not knowing, or seeming not to know. Knowledge makes you dangerous, and she cannot afford seeming too dangerous just now – but that doesn’t mean she cannot find out more about things, and the new guard, for that is what he is, even if he pretends to be a gardener, doesn’t fit in _at all_. It’s not because he’s not needed – she figured it out shortly after her arrival, how they have too many kitchen helps and too many gardeners and too many janitors, she’s sure that she’ll start tripping over them soon enough, and that none of them knows how to cook or trim a bush or change a light bulb at all, she’s not _that_ dumb, after all, and the way they move and how they talk and their haircuts aren’t subtle _at all_ – but because he’s so _different _from the others. His hair, or its length, is the first clue, she thinks, too long and too unpractical for a normal soldier, and she wants to find out more about him.

And so she goes and dumps some fabrics at his feet.

The boxes aren’t closed properly, and she balances too many on her arms, and when she stumbles and all four boxes fall to the ground, fabrics scattering everywhere, it just so happens to be right on front of him. He’s trimming some roses – doing a better job than the others, she thinks, and he holds the secateurs as if he actually knows what he’s doing – and he scurries to help her pick up the pieces before they get too dirty on the gravel and in the grass. Their hands brush, and he _blushes_ and tries to hide it behind his hair, but she notices it nevertheless, and cannot help but grin. _Good. _Up this close, she can see how dark his eyelashes are, even if his brows are fairer, closer to blond, like his hair, and she notices the scars on his left eye and, when she looks down at the cloths he holds, on his right hand. “I hope they’re not ruined. They’re pretty. Just like – like you.” He stammers, and she smiles at him. “Thank you”, she murmurs, trying to decipher the lilting note in his voice, the accent she can’t quite place, and asks him to help her carry everything to the laundry room.

Later that day, after a diner drenched in silence and a long, scaling hot bath to get rid of all the lingering touches, she lies in bed with what she pretends is a sketchbook for her ideas and designs. To be honest, many of the pages are indeed filled with sketches of robes and gowns, but the spaces between the robe she wants to wear to the opera on what they pretend is her birthday and the dress she’ll pretend to sew for the wedding he wants are filled with runes. _Bronze Yohn’s tattoos are such an inspiration_, she can hear herself say with a practised smile, _and you know how much I love embroidering things_. No one knows that she came up with a code years ago, and that she started writing in her own script made of symbols and runes and little dots, and she hopes that none of her captors ever manage to decipher what she writes. _Bleached hair_, she scribbles down, and starts chewing on her pen, _contact lenses [blue/grey]_, but what about his voice? Dornish, most likely, given his name, Jon Dayne, and the curses muttered in Dornish when he tripped over a forgotten watering can in the gardens, but there’s something else, something she cannot quite place. _Scars_ joins the other words, and she thinks of his hand, calloused and scarred and strong. Waymar Royce had scars from a motorcycle accident, she remembers, running down his back, rough under her fingers when he moved over her, and she puts the sketchbook aside. When she closes her eyes, and thinks of Waymar, he has Jon’s face.

Ok maybe, _maybe_ she has a type. She’s not sure, not after her last two boyfriends, if you’d call them that. The only men she was ever really attracted to were Waymar, all the way back in Winterfell when she was 17 and swooning over boys with long dark hair and tattoos and scars and dreamy eyes, and maybe the Hound in King’s Landing, also with long dark hair and scars, but the others were quite different. Well, she didn’t _choose_ the two others, they were chosen for her, but she tried to like Joff’s golden looks and Harry’s dimples so much that she doesn’t know if it was really her, or if she just pretended so hard that she tricked herself into thinking they were her type. Now she’s only confused. Does she like dark men or fair ones, preppy boys or bad ones, _boys or men?_ Maybe she likes men with scars, she decides, remembering Waymar and Sandor and _Jon_, how his burned hand lingers on hers sometimes, until she thinks of the scar running down Petyr’s chest and the shivers that run down her spine whenever she catches a glimpse of it, the _bad kind_ of shivers, and she pulls her blanket up higher, even if she’s a woman grown and no longer a child. Maybe men with scars aren’t her type.

⚡

She finds out that Jon’s not a natural blond after – after _every__th__ing_. She always suspected him of bleaching his hair – his eyelashes are too dark for a naturally blond man, and too long and too thick to be fair – and he admits it when they’re sitting in the bathtub of a cheap motel in their underwear, trying to wash away the blood, _mostly_ from her body. He tells her everything, how he joined the Watch, how he went undercover behind the wall, how he met her brother, how he decided to go undercover again, but this time at the Eyrie, and that he likes her lacy underwear. She washes out the dark dye of her hair, and shaves his head over the sink, the bleached and ruined strands almost clogging the drain, and she asks him if he’ll grow his hair out again after everything’s over. “I’d do anything for a cute redhead”, he whispers, and a shiver runs down her spine, but a _good _one. She puts on the clothes he’s bought for her, a rather grungey outfit, not what she usually wears, but then, her usual clothes are chosen for her by Baelish, and she thinks of it as some kind of rebellion, even now, and watches him, her gaze landing on the tattoos covering his arms, no longer hidden under makeup, and the scars on his hand and face. He pulls out a pair of dark sunglasses, but she catches his hand. “No. I like your eyes. They’re so deep and _dark_.” He smiles, until she presses her lips to his. They leave the motel later than they should, in a stolen car, with Baelish’s blood still under her fingernails and Jon’s hand on her thigh, the scars matching the ones on her legs, and she smiles when she sees it.

Maybe she likes men with scars after all.

⚡

**Author's Note:**

> See a sexy blond Jon [on my tumblr](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/post/187189179094/men-with-scars-they-leave-the-motel-later-than) :)


End file.
